The monks were chanting morning offices and had not yet set out for work so that Smoke, Iamerge he had to remind himself, was free to grab a few bites off of the table in the guest house and head for town.

The yellow sun was tinting the thin veil of clouds in morning colors and the air was fresh and clean as he walked out from the beehives and stacked stone oratories.  Iamerge whistled as he walked toward docks and people and noise of the little port.  He was penniless and in borrowed clothes, but he had planned for nearly this condition though loosing his boat and the things he had aboard was a blow.

Still, he was alive, despite the odds.  He had made a friend, he felt, that would reward him personally and perhaps with the sort of information that had helped him in the past when it had become necessary to shed a life, like a snake sheds his skin, and begin anew.

“Iamerge,” He tasted the new name in his mind and laughed, “odd how chance brings about a path, like this one.  Iamerge.  Iamerge.  Iamerge the Merchant?  Maybe.  Iamerge the scribe?  Iamerge dressed like a monk today.” he thought. 

“I am Iamerge” and saying it made it so.

Iamerge’s beginnings, it appeared as he approached the small port, would be humble.  He had grown up in the stinking narrow streets of a port city, perhaps the largest in the world.  This was far from that in more ways than one on the face of it.

There were a few boats drawn up to the quay.  None of them looked like a trader to Iamerge.  Fishing seemed the mainstay of the harbor though the quay was a little larger than what fishing boats would need.  There were a few large buildings near the stone and wooden artificial spit that reached out into the calm waters. 

As Iamerge approached the town, nodding to the occasional farmer on his way out to his fields, he saw that the fishing fleet mostly used the beach and not the quay at all.  The town ran along the beach so that from the end as Iamerge had approached it had looked much smaller than it truly was.  Much of the town was hidden behind the large quayside warehouses.  The farmers he was passing turned out to be from a community, of sorts, before the town proper, a small attached farm village.

He was somewhat surprised by the lack of interest in a stranger, as he passed, until an old woman heading for the well bid him, “Good morn’ brother,” and he remembered he was dressed in the borrowed habit. Beyond the well there was a low palisade of logs atop a slight bank.  The gates were actually movable parts of the wall rather than true working gates with hinges and bolts.  It looked to Iamerge that they were never closed and stood wide as he walked through into the town.

The yellow sun was a good hour passed dawn and the town, as towns tended to be, was behind the farm village, but was beginning to shake itself from slumber.  Immediately within the gate was a larger than normal house that Iamerge guessed was an inn.  Likely it was cheap and shoddy, relying on its position not its service.  Then too it was away from the quay, which he expected would, anchor a trade district or market square along with the warehouses.  Traders and the moneyed would look for lodging there.  Iamerge walked on.

The goat was dead, but Oatey dragged it along after her.  Lugh nearly laughed at the comic look of the small woman straining to pull the dead weight of it along.  Nearly, but then he remembered how she had caused the wound that caused its death, how quickly and how offhandedly.

She turned, sweat and dust stained, to look at Lugh, “Here, make yourself useful.” she said and tossed him the rope.  Lugh made an awkward grab for the line but missed it.  He noticed her brief contemptuous smirk as he picked it up off the dirt, but also how the sweat glistened on her body.

Perhaps Oatey noticed his regard as well because she turned and separated her doe skin shift from the bundle she carried.  Items attached to her loincloth were tossed on the remains of the bundle and she quickly shrugged her way into the dress.  She bent again, catching up a belt, and anchoring all at her waist.  She quickly turned to what remained of her bundle and wrapped it together with a thong that let her throw it over her head to rest across her shoulder.  She turned back, hands on hips and the same amused curl of her lips, “Its a rope Lugh.  Pull it.”  Her eyes laughed at him.

“Its not my rope.” Lugh began.  But for reasons he couldn’t pin down he threw it over his shoulder and  walked  toward her.  She turned and began to stroll along a trail that he’d been finding the blood that led him to her. 

“I bled the goat too quick,”  Oatey sighed, as if it was a mark on her professional pride.  She let him draw even with her and then glanced over at him to say, “That or I picked the wrong goat.  I would have had a real hard time of it without your help.  Thanks.” 

Lugh was almost as surprised by her expression of thanks as he was by her casual bleeding of the goat in the first place.  He dragged the goat, mulling that revelation before asking, “Oatey, why are we dragging the goat?”

“We. . .” Oatey chuckled, “. . . are dragging the goat to the next goat unless you don’t have the strength.”

Lugh trudged along, dragging the dead goat behind, and mulling her answer.  She had ignored his question and stabbed his pride to make him continue to do something that made no sense.  Now he was sweating as much as she had been and climbing a little rise was making him breath hard.  “So Oatey,” he puffed, “How far to the next goat?” 

Oatey ignored his question, “Are you ready for a run?” She stood at the top of the rise and gazed back the way they had come.

“A run, what?” but as Lugh turned to look back the way she was looking his question died on his lips.  A huge figure, roughly man shaped, stood above the little trees that had surrounded the meadow where he’d been sitting.  The thing was walking slowly, but following the path they had marked in blood.  Even at a distance Lugh could see that he pushed aside the trees as if they were tall grass.

“When a giant wakes he’s hungry, real hungry.  There’s no room for anything but feeding.  No thought but the smell of blood and of woman.  He thinks I’m a giant wife, if he thinks at all.  Mostly he just wants the goat.”  She turned and pointed down the other side of the rise,  “And then he’ll want that next goat.  Here’s good for that one.”

Lugh dropped the rope and looked again at the giant.  “Its nearly twenty feet tall.”

“I don’t think over fourteen.”  corrected Oatey

“Fine, more than twice the height of a man.” Lugh blanched. “What are you doing with it.”

“Me?” Oatey laughed. “What happen to WE, Lugh of the Long Reach, god of the Gael.  I think you better stick with me now.  That giant is going to have the scent of you soon enough.  More than a goat, more than even a giant wife, that thing wants man-flesh and you look like a tasty bit to me.” Oatey grinned wickedly, and then started off down the slope toward her next goat victim.

“Fine, what are WE going to do with it?  Lugh called after her, looking back at the looming giant’s slow progress along their path.

“WE are going to kill it.” Oatey called over her shoulder.

. . . The old skald, Barnen, was no friend, but Hunter couldn’t grudge the man his spot by the fire.  It had been a hard Winter, only recently did its icy grip show signs of loosening, and the days nearing Imbolc already.  Hunter had sung when asked despite the venomous glances of the wizened old teller.  The story of the Magic Lady had held them rapt a time or two as well, but folk in general and Rig himself pumped him for news of parts beyond their little sphere.  He embroidered the news of the lands he had travelled into a rich tapestry, but nothing caught their attention like the news of the burned out village.

Truth to tell, Hunter had avoided the subject for fear that this Rig had had a hand in it, but too many ales and familiarity had caused him to let down his guard.  On the topic of turmoil and war he had dropped the news as an aside, “You know what I mean. . .” He’d blathered, “like those poor folk on the other side of the mountain, all of them killed and their village burned to the ground.”

There was shocked silence, for indeed nobody but Hunter did know it.  Anger followed and women weeping.  The entire scene turned from eventide ease to pointed interrogation.

Barnen the Skald was the only one the least bit happy.  It seemed there was much back and forth and everyone related to someone over the mountain, but no more and Hunter Wilde had borne the news and told it too late.

There was nothing for it but to go with a scouting party, a fact finding effort, to see what had befallen their kin.  Hunter knew the way of these things, he was the outsider, in their fear and pain and the desire for revenge could easily fall on him.  so he went, trying to seem concerned and likemindedly all for revenge while ignoring the dirty looks and the sharpening of knives.

It was a long walk and Hunter made himself useful and free by ranging ahead and bringing down fresh meat for the party.  Slowly the questioning around the fire became less accusatory.  Hunter had known their folk, had planned to spend Winter with them, had taken care of them in death as best he could.  He could name many of them though he confessed he had tried not to remember names as he buried the dead who had not been treated kindly.

They drew some of these details from Hunter and anger flared again, but now it was not aimed at him.  that relief was soon overshadowed by their approach to the place full of so many nightmarish memories.

The village was nothing but blackened timbers sticking up through the snow, lonely and forlorn.  Hunter showed the place he’d laid the villagers.  Then the grim work of learning what had befallen the villagers began so that they might be avenged.

When he had come upon the tragedy, Hunter had worried first about burying the villagers to protect them from Winter scavengers.  He had come late to the massacre, snow already hiding some of the carnage so that as they tried to make sense of the horror they came upon bodies, bodies torn by scavengers at times, but at others frozen in icy snow, as they were, by the rictus of death.

Horrific wounds marked the folk.  Many seemed mauled as if by animals, but as they ranged out from the buildings they found weapons, sharp edged stones embedded in mauls, short stone tipped spears, bone hafted obsidian knives, and here and there something man made and innocent as a rusty kitchen knife turned into something vicious.  Many of the weapons had fetishes attached to them made of bone and human hair.

The mood at camp was somber and watchful.  Clearly a war party of some strength had fallen on the village.  They were savages, without the use of metal, but they were accomplished killers and well organized if the totality of slaughter was any indication.  The deaths in the village had been brutal, but relatively quick.  Not so those who seemed to have escaped or even fought back.  In the woods there were bodies of people who had suffered cruel and intentionally long deaths.

The night was long, but few could console themselves in sleep.  Everyone knew there would be more grizzly finds on the morrow.  The watch did not need to be reminded to keep themselves from dozing.  It was fairly clear that where their kin had been slaughtered was now enemy territory.

Finally the sun rose, blood red, tinging the world with anger as the men gathered themselves for another depressing day of finding the dead.

There was a foreboding, a sense of dread, as they approached a rocky gorge.  They were not surprised to find a body on the ice rimed rocks below.  It was a surprise that for once nobody was related to the corpse.  With ropes and much clamoring and hauling they brought the dead thing up.

The body was not human, at least not in the way any of them would recognise humanity.  It was obviously one of the raiders, they found brutal stone tipped weapons like those they found in the villagers.  The creature, though slightly shorter than the men of the party, was heavier, with a savage visage, powerfully muscled, and perhaps most alarming of all, it was female.

There was a clear trail along the top of the cliff.  Hunter felt the foreboding worst of all from that direction.  Now that they knew their enemy a bit better they all clinched their weapons tighter and looked around furtively, fearing ambush around every tree.

Hunter led them, step by step, into the dark foreboding wood.  There was no breeze to stir the Winter dead branches that clawed toward the sky.  “Do you smell it?” Hunter murmured as much to himself as those with him.  there was a stink in the still air, a stench of sulfur and corruption.

The land rose until they topped a rise, the stench smote them in the face.  Moss hung trees formed a dark tunnel down into the sheltered copse.

“I’ll not go there,” a man’s quavering voice suggested he might not stand either, and there were murmurs of agreement.

Hunter heard the old skald telling his stories to the children of the tec.  He had noticed that the man liked to test out new material on the young, sharpening it with a few trial tellings to those young ears before he presented it to the tec at large.

Hunter had decided that this was a wise practice and something good he would carry away from an otherwise frosty relationship with Barnen.  Hunter was happy about being back in the warmth of Winter-hold.  He’d gone a bit mad alone in the wild.  Things were good, for the most part, Hunter had one enemy however, and that was Barnen the Skald.

The old man was focused on his audience and didn’t notice Hunter, “OH, the man was fae, no doubt of that, and most likely mad, but he could sing like a bird, play harp even better, and I can confirm what you’ve heard, he talked to the elves.  The children’s eyes were as big as saucers.

“How did yo meet him?” a bold little boy in front asked.

“Oh that?” Why I was telling the Rig a tale in the great hall, it was the black of night and the wind was howling.  BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! there was a fierce pounding on the door.

“More and more interesting,” thought Hunter, “he’s turning the children against me having failed with the adults.  Hunter Wilde slipped back into shadow.

Barnen was warming to his tale.  Each time he said boom the children jumped, “Boom, Boom, Boom went the door like a war drum, Old Lars fell off his chair getting to it before it got knocked in.  Lars throws open the portal, Who knocks at portal of Murchadh, says he? The door swings wide and there stands a man, it seemed, twice the size of Bran the champion and white as snow!”

“Hunter Wilde ain’t even as big as Bran” said the boldest child.

“You’re right there, not half as big, but that snow giant in the doorway stepped once, and again, and fell flat on his face! By that time, Lars was back with the axe he’d forgot in his hurry to open the door. But by then there was nothing but a big pile of snow on floor so Lars shrugs and shuts the door.”

There was a buzz among the children, Barnen drew there attention back with a flourish. “It was warm in the Tec, a fire roaring to keep out the chill, so it wasn’t long until the snow melted away and there on the floor. . .”

“Hunter Wilde?” the children chorused.

“Who knew?  There was just a heap of rags.  It was strange, a rag bag walking about, but strange things do happen.  So a couple of slaves were going to pick through it when one thinks he sees a wee animal amongst the sodden rags.  He reaches in and pulls on a tail, but instead of a fox, out comes Hunter Wilde!”

“Was that his beard?” the children laughed.

“No no,” said Barnen, “Hunter Wilde is most likely part elf himself and he can’t grow a proper beard at all, that’s why he wears a fox tail for a moustache.”

“And why he talks to elves?” a big eyed little girl asked.

“Oh no, that’s not why.  Hunter is a strange one sure enough, but he serves a purpose.  He’s too small for a warrior, he’s not so very smart either, but one thing he does do is he takes bad girls and boys with him and he gives them to the elves to teach them manners.  So you better get off to bed or you’ll be liven in the trees and eating flowers and moss.”

“Come on Barnen, tell us more. . .”

Hunter stepped out of the shadows behind the Skald letting his last two footfalls thump hard on the floor, “Who’s hungry for flowers and moss!” he shouted.  The children shrieked and ran for their beds.”

Barnen, the old skald laughed, glancing back at Hunter he said, ”I never liked you Hunter Wilde, I’m glad you’re going, but I expect we’ll be old friends when you’re gone.”

*   *   *

Hunter Wilde huddled by his fire in the drafty hovel he shared with the meat he’d brought down.  The lord of Winterhold, Murchadh, had enjoyed his singing and playing, been amused by his stories, but in the end he was a most practical man.  More than mirth he needed meat. So instead of a warm place by the communal fire he got a cold bed alone in the wood.

At least he’d not starve. He had been a fair hunter finding meat on the way as he travelled, but he was better than fair at it now that he put his mind to it.  Witness the carcasses hanging about, leaving little enough room for him.

Like as not the sleigh would be out in a day or thrice.  But he’d be off.  Hunter had learned by now that at first you think you’d be happy for any human contact, but the same old small talk and news about folk you don’t know makes one feel all the lonelier.  He’d let them take his work back to the warm fires and leave him the things they always did.  Best sleep for the long walk on the morrow. . .

. . . The days were much longer, but Winter showed no sign of flagging.  He travelled game trails in the thick wood, a world he was learning well.  He was the alpha hunter and now he stalked a huge sow.  What he would do if he cornered her he had not thought.  Perhaps he was over confident or perhaps a bit mad.  He had ranged ever wider to find game so that his hovel saw him less than once in four days and as often not at all in ten.  Wandering in pursuit of game he only had himself and his thoughts which did carry him away at times.

The brush exploded ahead.  He fumbled with his weapons dropping unstrung bow and spear.  Hunter glanced up in terror at a huge bristle boar, tiny eyes fixed on her tormentor.  He gathered himself as she charged.  He flung himself out of her way and tumbled into the scrub beside the trail.

The sow crashed on, preferring escape to violence.  Not so wise the man.  Hunter gathered his things taking time to string his bow.  Then, heedless of anything but the pursuit, he sprinted after her.

Her passage was obvious, she tore through the undergrowth heedless of path or briar patch.  Hunter followed as fast as he could and much faster than he should.  Then, when he might have turned back, he came out into a stream and again he saw her scrabbling up into the verdant fern and bough of the opposite bank.

Only then did it strike him as strange that he had pursued the sow into Spring.  The stream was not ice rimed.  There was neither snow nor frost on the green slope to the North.  The great pig thrashed off to the East.

Hunter splashed across the rivulet and charged after the sow.  The man followed into a tightening gorge by sound as a mist bespoke the falls he heard as well as the pig.  Then he saw her at bay, head low, staring at him as he approached.  She pawed the gravel, he drew, expecting her charge, but she turned in a spray of brook water and rock and pounded up into the green.  Hunter Wilde followed.

“Hunter!” beautiful and strong, he heard a woman’s voice, “leave off!”

Hunter stopped, looking after the boar.  Then among the fern and the mist, from behind a birch tree, stepped a lady more lovely than legend.  Her golden hair fell to her waist, her raiment was soft doe skin embroidered with gold and silver and emerald.  There was a golden torc around her long creamy white throat.  Her eyes were smoldering amber hued.

“Why do you pursue the mother of generations?”

He stood dumb, gazing at her, wondering how to speak to such a creature, wondering how she knew his name.

“Go back Hunter, this is not your place, you have strayed into the lands of the Ui Uilsen of the Elves.”

“You know my name?”

Her laughter was music.  Her smile was radiance.  “I think this mother of generations is not to be meat for you. . .    . . . Hunter.  Go!”

He turned to obey without thought so commanding was her presence, but following the moment of compulsion, Hunter succumbed to curiosity.  He turned back, “My name, you know it, but I do not know yours.”

“It is not I who came unbidden, nor do you have need of my name.  You must go from here!”  The woman’s anger was clear to see.  In her long fingered hand she held up a bronze dart of lethal aspect.  “Flee Hunter, South into Winter from whence you came.”

He stumbled back, feet slipping in wet rock so that he fell to one knee.  He looked up fearing the dart would take him or perhaps to see her, but she was gone.

Hunter did as he was told, though he did not run much after he left the stream.  When snow began to fall again he slowed to a walk.

He had time to think as he walked back to his hovel.  As he went, he hunted.  He brought down a beautiful stag and he thought, “I really am a fine hunter,” and suddenly he knew that the beautiful woman had not truly known his name, only his vocation.

He pursued a doe into a bush and, as he approached, three wood hens exploded from the branches, flapping and squawking and he thought “The sow ran past the woman, but the sow was not the woman.”

Still, when by happenstance the sleigh and Hunter were both at the hunter’s cabin, the men could tell him that he was relieved to come back to the warm halls.  Hunter the singer, Hunter the poet, Hunter the bard had a tale to tell.  In it the shape-shifting fairy woman knew his name. . .

*   *   *